Saturday, May 29, 2010
How am I ever supposed to Friendly's anymore? You really expect me to eat those fries without salt? And what about all those 4th graders who put weird stuff in people's drinks and "double dog dare" them to drink it? Salt is a crucial element of that concoction.
I don't get why "they" get to decide everything all the time. They really have no idea what they're doing half the time. And they're mad rich and powerful.
People who have more Power than "They"
1. JD's associates
2. Preston Blake
3. That Sanjaya dude from American Idol
4. The Baja Men
I've been in the big Flo-daddy the past few days. It's pretty hot down here. That girl that sings with Nelly would probably want to take her clothes off.
I'm listening to a song by Matt Nathanson right now. Not really by choice. It just came up on my itunes. And like, I didn't really realize I was listening to the song until like halfway through the song. That ever happen to you? It happens to me all the time. Sometimes i'll listen to a whole song and not even know i'm listening to it. It's such a weird concept. Though I guess it balances out my itunes. Like, there's no way i've voluntary listened to "Bulls on Parade" by Rage Against the Machine 6 times. Yet itunes tells me I have.
Why do I even have Bulls on Parade, you may ask? Well, it's kind of like half the furniture in that room in your house that nobody ever goes in. Its there for decoration. And even though its never used, its still part of the house. If it was gone, someone would notice. Six months later, that is.
Why does everyone hate on Justin Bieber? I don't get it. What did he ever do to you? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All he did was create about 6 average/slightly above average songs. It's not like he went to your house and stunk up the toilet. Geez Louise.
Oh, my bad Louise. She hates when I say that.
I decided today that I was going to end my relationship with hotel swimming pools. We're done. Finished.Not for any reason in particular. It's just not doing it for me anymore, you know? The spark is gone. No longer will I fling myself into a resort swimming pool as if it were my girlfriend of 3 years who I haven't seen since the summer. The pool and I no longer have that flaming passion between us. Every time we see each other, all we do is argue. She starts nagging me about how I never want to do anything anymore. She never lets me relax. All I want to do is just sit down in a chair and gather myself. We don't always have to be doing something, honey. And by the way. It's really hot. She never lets me sit in the shade. And I ALWAYS have to be reading a book. Why can't she ever give me anything interesting to read? John Adams was a cool dude, but there's no way im going to read 700 pages about who he invited to his dinner parties.
This doesn't really apply anymore now that i'm in college, but I used to have to be very careful about what snack food's I liked. For instance, if I mentioned in passing that I thought Nature Valley granola bars were "pretty good," my mom would sprint to the nature valley headquarters and come back with three trucks worth of the stuff. The 34 times were fine, but once I hit the 35th consecutive day of having a nature valley in my lunch bag, it became a real struggle. Thing is, I didn't want to throw it out. I hate people that never ate half of the things they had for lunch. Though I guess all of them had a career path set for them at that point--owners of the Cheesecake Factory.
I'm organizing a nationwide boycott of Progressive car insurance until they change their commercials. Who's with me?
In other news, there was some big oil spill somewhere. I don't really know much about it, all I know is that it was huge.
I know it's terrible, but I just really don't care about political stuff. At all. Maybe i'm just really selfish callous, and some other self-deprecating word that I can't think of, but it has absolutely no effect on me. And when it does, it's not like I can do anything to change it. Yea, I can lobby, I can be a politician. But I'd rather be doing other things with my time. Like, blogging about I don't have time to lobby, for instance. Plus, all politicians are immoral. That conniving guy in a suit with the dark glasses and slicked back hair always puts stuff in their drinks. Immoral stuff.
Oh well. I guess the only thing I can do is turn into one of those "down with society" people.
Thing is, apathy is happathy. And that rhymes. Busta.
song of the day:
Backstreet Boys: We've got it goin on
*It's funny because Lauren Conrad actually wrote a best-seller
Thursday, May 27, 2010
That 95 mph fastball may have worked wonders for you in the past, but its just not gonna get the job done anymore. Things have changed.
You need to adapt. You need a new pitch.
It's tough for you to make the switch, because you view it as a change in identity. You prided yourself on throwing that good old fashioned heater.
Sometimes in life, the worst possible thing you can do is to hold onto something that just isn't right for you. Like the fastball. Yea, it has sentimental value. But that sentimental value is going to cause you to throw your arm out. Boom. Season over.
Learn a curve ball. Master your craft in a different way. Because if you don't, you are going to be forced into an early retirement. Plus, the critics won't waste any time fawning over the "coulda shoulda woulda's" of your career.
But if you do, you may just happen to find that your best years are still ahead of you.
Facebook chat convo of the day:
Friend: just had to wake dad up
Friend: to kill a huge ass spider in my room
Me: It had a huge ass?
Song of the day:
3OH!3: Touchin on My
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Disclaimer: Read the previous post if you haven't already. Otherwise, you'll be more L O S T than the greatest TV show ever created.
Sorry, Lopez Tonight. I know you thought you had that award all locked up, but I guess the voters had a change of heart at the last minute.
I left off making jokes about bacon grease and timeless disney warthogs, so we'll pick it up from thurr.
The Boars Head inn isn't an ordinary take-the-elevator-up to-your-room-and-crash-on-the-super-soft-and-fluffy-king-size-bed kind of gig. Its more like a really really really (did I say really?) classy motel.
When we finally drive over to the roomski, we discover that it is above sea level....barely.
Our room was in the basement of the place. We had window with a view of ground dirt and dead grass, but the other half of the room was fo sho underground. It was like a little mini cave. How charming.
Joking aside, the room was definitely of fancy shmancy hotel quality. You know a hotel means business when the bed posts have some really strange design on them and extend about 10 feet higher than they need to. I've learned that practicality is often ignored in aristocratville.
Anywho (yes, I actually just seriously used the word "anywho"), mom sauce was extremely displeased with our cellar dwelling. Apparently it was disrespectful of them. Maybe it was, but i'm pretty sure the hotel people weren't thinking that when they placed us in a room that looked exactly the same as every other room except for the fact that it was on the bottom level. But then again, I digress.
According to heavy D on the set, our room placement was such "because we're Jewish."
Jews being put in basements against their will. Never heard that one before.
Displaying all of the signs of the incredible hulk (other than the rapidly expanding green monster part), my mom was outraged. She decided to call up the hotel desk and demand a room change. And when I say demand, I mean she talked to them in that really nice mom way about how we were "unhappy." Its called "Mom Yelling." If I converted her attitude into "Dad", everyone in the vicinity would probably frantically start searching for the mute button so that their ears remained intact.
Needless to say, we were granted the room change. The new room was now on the top floor. The penthouse. This way, we could look down on all the serfs from our stately manor. Pass me the caviar.
By the way, there was absolutely no difference between the two rooms except for the fact that it would be slightly more convenient to train for a marathon in the new location. Blame it on the a-aa-a--a-al-titude
It was now 6:45, our reservation was at 7, the place was 20 minutes away, and we hadn't even started to get ready yet. I think we've gotten Kanye beat when it comes to "Late Registration." By a longshot.
Being that the place was all classy and overly snobbish, we had to dress up. And when I say dress up, I don't mean Barbie dolls. I'm talking about full out american girl style. The real deal.
I repped the Loafer/Khaki/Dress shirt/sport jacket look. Model agencies wish they were there.
Seriously, I could have passed for a southern plantation owner. The outfit was pretty spectacular, but the real kicker was my hair. Fresh outta the shower, I was rockin the flow to the max. Nate Archibald would have crumbled under my presence. In fact, the first thing my brother said to me when we picked him up five minutes later was, "wow, great flow on that hair. I gotta get me some of that" Mind you, I haven't seen him in three months.
I decided to temporarily change my name to L. Ryan Pauker for the occasion. Southern enough, don't you think? Now all I needed was an equestrian stable and a friend who deals moonshine.
After a car ride during which--despite all of us passing math---3 out for the 4 smallest members of our family sat in the rather cramped backseat, we arrived at the restaurant. If you could call it that. It was more like Draco Malfoys house if it served food.
We were chauffered to a grand entrance antechamber with more chintz couches than an 1800's Jane Austen Novel, and then to this dining hall that could have passed for a scene in an Oscar Wilde play. Amidst the ten or so immaculately furnished tables, there were numerous purposely positioned paintings and accessories--none of which added relevant ambiance to the setting. To top it all off, the room was elevated on some sort of balcony, overlooking some really nice landscape that was probably once owned by Jefferson Davis.
Things to note about the dinner:
-The waitress had to pretend to be all proper. However, it was clear that as soon as the place closed down, she was going straight to the bars to get hammered and let the night take her away to...okay i'll stop now.
-We ate with our good family friends, the Schnittgers. Mr. Doug is graduating with my brother. As always, he provided some excellent verbal exchanges throughout the meal, and did not hesitate to criticize the food.
-Everyone got champagne, so the waitress figured i wanted some as well. However, she decided to card us young folk. Me, not having a substantial ID, would've had to do that really embarassing thing where I have to explain that i'm not 21. Somewhat smartly, I claim to not have my wallet. She gives me this look like "I hate myself for having to card you because I started drinking at age 12", and then I save whatever her wistful response was going to be by interjecting that it was ok and that I didn't need champagne.
Logic says any normal person would be full after a four course meal. Logic needs to have a conversation with the elitist snobs over at that restaurant.
Despite being a gazillion times more expensive than a McChicken and a Mcdonalds cheeseburger, those somewhat edible concoctions would have filled me up more than that meal. It was pathetic. The Halibut I ordered was the size of my fist. And in case you didn't know, my hands are unnaturally small.
It really pissses me off that fancy shmancy restaurants think they can get away with forgetting to serve 75% of the meal. Who do they think they are? Honestly. If that's what you have to do in elitist society, I'd rather be a janitor. There's no doubt it'd be more well fed. I mean, haven't they ever seen this commercial?
It really was exactly like that. Elf food might even be an understatement.
By the way, I really want to go on that date sometime. Minus the $300 bill from the hillary swank spectacular.
As we all know, the best way to fight off a full stomach is by drinking alcohol. So NATURALLY, thats exactly what I did.
I stayed at my brothers place for the night. In retrospect it probably saved the weekend. Being with the rents for 15 consecutive hours at a time is kind of like spending an extended weekend with that really really annoying kid you once had to babysit.
Nobody was actually back at the apartment other than this kid who called himself "Charlie Tuna," so we pregamed a bit and listened to Tuna talk about how he once went to space camp when he was like 10 years old. Imagining the manifest of an astronaut list with someone named "Charlie Tuna" was just about as hilarious as that shirt Aldous Snow had to wear to dinner in forgetting Sarah Marshall.
Take my eyes, but not the shirt.
A few Gins later, I was starting to feel it. Which was good, because I wanted to be decently drunk when Oaf and I pulled the old fashioned Harvey Dent to sneak into the bar. Going to the bars with graduating seniors who don't even go to my school. I was about to be so cool.
Or not. Turns out the bars weren't any good, so everyone crashed back at my brothers apartment. Clowns with names such as "Big Daddy Chi, Patches, Mildew, and Smegma all filtered in. Oh, I almost forgot about the identical twins, Chutes and Ladders.
Discouragement of sobreity galore, Fifa on one TV, Mets fans obnoxiously yelling at the other TV, and the one really really drunk kid, the scene was about as collegely fratacular as you could get. There was even the disproportionate amount of girls in attendance. Just like in any male college setting, one was dating someone there, while the other two were friends of the girl and would definitely not be there if it wasn't for the girlfriend girl because they haven't made a strong enough connection with the housemates yet. Or maybe they passed that barrier. I couldn't really tell. The gin was gettin me all sleepy.
Of course, this festival of collegiateness" would not be complete without drunk food, so we ventured over to get...yep...pizza.
Grand total was seventeen bills.
"And I could get Pizza, TWO dollars a slice."
Geez Asher, adjust your song for inflation.
Song of the day: Acoustic Alchemy, norwegian recycling. music video is self-created. It is of nolan's graduation. enjoy
Sunday, May 23, 2010
With that in mind, lets throw some May, 21st, 2010 action at ya. Family trip time. Woot woot. Not quite Johnson family vacation status, but pretty high up on the "It's funny because I could relate to that because my family does the EXACT same thing" scale.*
If you don't currently own one of those scales, I suggest you buy one. They sell them at "Party Hardy." They come in a pack along with that pointless glitterry star stuff that always finds its way to the floor at six year old birthday parties.
Chronicles of the Pauker von Thatched Ponds
-The Droadster, big D, D mac daddy, Heavy D (Father. His real name is Marty. Don't ask.)
-Manny (sister. real name is nothing close to manny. again, don't ask)
-Oaf, Npdarat, Nols Farha (broski. real name, nolan. at least half the names are close)
-Mom (everytime we gave her nickname, she claimed it was "insulting")
-That guy at the bagel store who is always there and you think he lives there, waitress who is dressed way too classy for her actual classiness level, big shot CEO's at the table next to us who might not actually be a big shots at all and are just bluffing their wealth to the attractive girls they are wining and dining, slurpy mcslurp dude at the check-in counter, Doug and his fillial entourage, non-sober frataculars
My broski is graduated this weekend. He's all grown up. Such a big boy.
Anyways, my family and I had to make the immaculate trek from Smithtown New York to Charlottesville Virginia so that we could attend this momentous occasion. Being that none of my family are accomplished wizards, apparation, floo powder, and portkeys were out of the question. Lose-gardium leviosa on that one.
Yep, we drove. Being that we had a dinner reservation at 7, we had to leave kind of on the earlier side. Like, 8 am early. Almost like were back in high school. All I need is a locker, some unwarranted drama, vending machines that exclusively sell snapple iced tea, and a teacher who smokes more weed than the students. do the stanky leg.
I wake up at 8:09 am. Obviously, nobody is even close to departure mode. Heavy D is psuedo yelling at everyone, being all like "lets move it people." Meanwhile, he isn't even close to ready himself, all decked out in outdated sweatpants and a sweatsuit that looked like he was back in 1984. I think he's forgotten to buy clothes for 30 years straight. Gotta save money somehow. Especially "in this economy."
Shenanagans ensue at the house. Me Moms insists that we empty all the garbages out, fold up some table in the den that clearly doesn't need folding and is only being folded up because we aren't gonna be home for three whole days. The fun doesn't stop there. Acts II and III feature wiping down the kitchen, engaging a whole slew of other windex related activities, and bringing up the "Waughtah's." (New York for Water)
Meanwhile, the droadster is in full "i'm a dad so i have to be on top of things" mode. In other words he's standing in the hallway telling me to do this, telling manny to do that, and does nothing himself.
We pack the car. We mess up. We pack the car again. We squeeze in that last pointless bag that we most likely aren't going to even end up using. By the time we pull out of the driveway, it is 9:24 am. Almost 90 whole minutes past scheduled departure. The Late Late show. I metaphorically call up Jimmy Fallon.
After we hit up the smithtown bagel store and make the first of three starbucks stops, we're off on the road. We pop in the one CD I made for the car ride. Good news was that the critics gave my musical selection rave reviews, as confirmed from the regular chorus of "Ooh Lancey! Goood Pick!!" from momsies. Bad news was that when the CD was doneski, we were still on Long Island. 7 more hours to go. Nice. Everybody danse on THAT drug.
Highlights from the car ride:
-People get progressively less tan as you move away from Long Island
-Droad doesn't believe in technology. He also recycles the same jokes over and over again. We left late. We get it. The first three jokes were enough.
-I'm not sure what age it is where you suddenly become obsessed with traffic patterns, but I hope its not soon
-OK! magazine is the most overpriced excuse of a publication ever. Only one page of Justin Bieber?! Pur-leease
-My parents asked me about my blog, as they don't really read it (which is probably a good thing). Droad, clueless as usual despite thinking he knows everything, claims it to be "A diary/journal."
I suddenly became horrified. I mean, some of my posts are all "I have feelings," but i'm not here to provide you sappy tales of failed romances. Manny fresh. saves the day by explaining how it is not in fact a journal, but is instead a nonsensical rant of raging hilarity and idiocy. Sounds about right.
After what seems like longer than Ronalidinho and Sarah Jessica Parker's faces combined, we finally arrive at the hotel. Although the place is called "The Boars Head in," I am extremely disappointed to find that there is nobody there with a deeply assuring voice telling me to buy ham. Awful. Instead we are greeting by this 23 year old wannabe southern gentlemen at the reception desk, clearly overplaying the twang on his accent in attempt to sound more proper. Fail.
I hate that phrase. Fail. Its worse than wearing a suit on a really really hot day. Absolutely unbearable.
Anyways, other than the fact that they forgot the Civil War was over, the hotel was pretty stellar
Finally, we arrive at the roomski. To say that certain family members were displeased with the setup would be.......accurate. You probably thought I was gonna say "an understatement" right there. Gotcha.
Our stay at the Boars Head was about to get hog wild. Pumba style.
I'm gonna pull some 1800's book publishing moves on you and leave ya hanging. Part two of this story will be published shortly.
song of the day:
The first cut is the deepest, Sheryl Crow. pure terrificness
Plus, this bonus snipe from T swift.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
"This is no contest: 1999 Aaron Carter. Are you serious? Through Aaron I’d get to meet Nick Carter, and through him, the rest of the Backstreet Boys. While I never was a fan, they certainly were a critical musical icon during the 1990’s. And “Aaron's Party (Come Get It)” is truly a fun song to listen to. I liked it when I was nine, (and still secretly like it now)."
Everyone is invited to the online release of Chrome Kippur on June 4th! It’s a facebook event and isn’t technically a real party, but up until that Friday, I will announce any information about the new album there. Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#!/event.php?eid=107053819338985.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
I learned about Midg Lewis
I learned that timing and circumstances suck. Though I also learned that they are beautiful. Though I also learned that they suck. Though I also learned...ok i'll stop now